Hearts and Roses
by Macarons and Muffins
Summary: Present day AU. A cynical, gothic tattoo artist and an arrogant florist find themselves working beside one another, and learn that maybe opposites do attract. J/M, Multichap
1. Black and White

**Tumblr is good for fic inspiration.**

**The prompt: Imagine your OTP in a florist/tattoo artist AU. (My initial thoughts; Joey as a tattoo artist, Martina as a florist.)**

**The challenge: Take who you originally thought for each role and flip them. (That meant Martina as a tattoo artist and Joey as a florist. I liked it even more.)**

**I made a** **post about it. I got enthusiastic** **feedback from my (awesome) friend slenderpanda597 on their tumblr account, and they gave me a few ideas as well, so I am crediting them :)**

** I then borrowed the title** **from one of my favourite clothing brands, Hearts and Roses. I don't intend to infringe copyright by using the name!**

**So, without further ado, my Joetina AU, set in the present day with a kind of Goth!Martina (because I love alternative fashion, so it was irresistible) tattoo artist and her neighbour, the florist Joey Boswell. This may be an epic failure, but I am excited for it...**

**I don't own bread.**

* * *

The scent of roses was the first thing she noticed on her way to work. It was not overpowering, being a subtle aroma, but it was still distinctly there; every time she turned her nose or breathed in a new gust of air, she was greeted with the muted sweetness of roses, so startlingly out of place on the dingy Liverpool streets, that usually smelled of spray paint, exhaust and cigarette butts. She wondered where on earth such an unusual scent was coming from- it was too distinct to be a from single bunch, and too genuine and pure to be the lingering trail of someone's perfume. There were no gardens here, not in the narrow urban slums and run down shops.

That was, until she appeared at her shop, and was met with a horrifying sight. The store beside hers, which had been under construction for months now, was finished. She had thought little of it during those days- it had been a fish and chip shop before, and she didn't expect anything different, maybe a clothing store or cafe, the tone of most of the shops down the high street. And yet, the previous night it had been finished, the wooden boards stripped away from the outside and the stock arranged inside. And it was beautiful, terrifyingly so; delicate pink exterior, with wide glass windows revealing the contents inside.

Ah. This was where the roses had come from. The flowers were explosive behind the glass, a cacophony of pastel colours arranged so that they looked as if they were blooming from the shop itself. Hydrangeas, lilies, tulips, daisies... And roses. Roses everywhere; hanging from the ceiling, wrapped in coloured cellophane, in neat little arrangements or in gigantic bouquets, ranging from the softest pink to a deep, wine colour- the only kind of flower that _she_ liked. And above it all, an elegantly lettered sign; '_A Rose, by any other name_,'.

Corny. It was a corny, cliché name. Martina wrinkled her nose.

Flowers did not exactly fit with her aesthetic. Granted, she had a secret passion for Roses (red, of course; she wouldn't accept any other colour.) But most flowers were too lurid for her taste; she was not impressed by their rings of petals and their bright colours, yellow and pink and purple, like a child's crayons in a box. And so, she was not impressed either by this vivid, romanticised store that had plonked itself beside her workplace. Though it was softly coloured, it would still attract attention amongst the other stores with its vivid displays of flowers and the noticeable scent of Roses that it was emitting, like a beacon; '_Come here, buy my flowers_.' It was certainly a contrast with the shop beside it, her shop. Her mouth twisted up in a cynical smile at the irony of it, and she turned her head from the soft pink coupe of the florists to a whirl of black and red. This was familiar, this was what she knew. Not flowers and petals and arrangements with sparkly butterflies- those were not her territory. Her world was shaped by ink, graphic designs, crosses and names and grinning skulls.

Martina looked fondly at the thick black letters of the sign above her.

'_**Wild Hearts Tattoo Parlour.**_'

She unlocked the door, her thick boots clicking against the checkered black and white linoleum as she stepped inside.

* * *

Tattoo parlours, and the artists that worked within them, had quite a stigma about them. They were viewed by the public eye as dingy, low rent places- with people screaming in pain and exaggeratedly tattooed and pierced punks stabbing unsanitary needles into them. Martina scoffed at the thought, her eyes trailing around the familiar parlour. People were quick to judge tattoos, to pass them off as rebellion and cries for help, rather than seeing the art in them.

The parlour that she worked in was the polar opposite of what people expected a tattoo parlour to be. It was brightly lit and sterile, and though there was a slightly eccentric edge to it with the vintage hydraulic chairs and eclectic frames hanging around the walls, displaying tattoo designs, there was nothing remotely dirty or low rent about it.

Martina was one of the few people in the world who loved her job; she loved the satisfaction of seeing a picture take life on a person's skin, creating art that would last forever. She awaited customers eagerly, their demands usually intriguing her. And their reactions were easy to gauge; there were the tattoo regulars, who had done this before and were unfazed by the inevitable pain, then there were the first-timers who were cautious, constantly asking 'Will this hurt?' And whilst the regulars or people who were enthusiastic about body art were usually not bothered by Martina, the less experienced people would often look her up and down, as though reconsidering their goals. She could see the disapproval in their eyes as they scrutinised her- the coloured hair, the dramatic make up and the alternative clothing and the way that she towered over them, tall even without the platform boots but unnaturally high with them. Martina didn't care, however. It was not their place to approve or disapprove of her style, and if wearing boots with six inch platforms and dying her hair black and white did not bother her, then why should it bother them?

Outside, it was beginning to rain. Martina checked the clunky, vintage clock on the wall. There was still half an hour before the shop officially opened, but she liked getting to work early. It meant that she was out of her tiny apartment before the morning rush of traffic, (though she usually walked to work, the morning rush meant that she was hindered by cars crossing the road) before any early customers appeared and huffed at her for keeping them waiting (which had happened on numerous occasions) and, most importantly, before her colleagues appeared.

Martina hated her colleagues.

Well, she thought, her painted lips twisting into a frown, that wasn't entirely true. She clicked well with one of the other artists, a woman named Julie, who held a kind of sarcastic and cynical confidence that Martina respected. Two of the remaining three weren't terrible- Angela, the blonde girl with the cartoon tattoos who worked at the desk was slightly irritating, but she was young and kept out of the way of the artists themselves most of the time- she had learned from her first day that most of the others who worked in the parlour did not appreciate her inane chatter about her boyfriend and her little terrier at home, so she just went about her business, ordering ink and charging people and occasionally peeping around with large, periwinkle eyes. The other female artist who worked in the shop had never really connected with Martina, but they seemed to have a mutual respect for each other. Her name was Celia, and she was a sallow cheeked and hardened woman with several failed relationships in her past and a long list of enemies. Martina could deal with those colleagues: it was the fourth one who got under her skin, making her grit her teeth and snap at him constantly.

Shifty. She despised him; he was arrogant, extremely so. He had only been working in the parlour for a handful of months, having replaced a much more likeable man named Jay who had gone on to America to start his own tattoo parlour, and who Martina missed terribly. Shifty had been hired in his place, and Martina had taken an instant dislike for him, a scruffy Irish "rebel" with the names of previous lovers tattooed up his tanned arms, and a transparent, flirtatious nature. He had invited Martina to dinner many times, and been swiftly turned down, though her never gave up. The idea of his cocky smirk and coarse accent made her skin crawl; she could never imagine dating him. He was, to put it mildly, a snake...

At twenty to nine, when Martina was busying herself checking that all the needles were sterilised and the correct inks had been stocked, there was a loud, odd scrape against the door, and then the doorbell rang. She whirled around, expecting it to see Angela's waif like form peering tentatively around the frame, a typical sight that greeted her in the morning. Instead, the doorway seemed empty, and she was about to pass it off as a gust of wind, when a huffing sound called to her from beneath her feet. She tilted her head down, before raising an eyebrow.

A dog. A dog stood at her feet, while a muddy mark on the base of the glass door bore testimony to the fact that it must have pushed through into the shop. It was on the large end of dogs, a scruffy mongrel with fur that could have been black or brown- it was hard to tell, even in the bright overhead lights of the tattoo parlour. She could see a line of prints where it had tracked mud across the formerly pristine floor, and it's tongue lolled out sloppily as it regarded her. Martina gave it a disdainful look; she was not really a dog person, and she did not appreciate the fact that it had dirtied the floor that the employees of the tattoo parlour meticulously cleaned in order to keep the place sanitary.

"Sorry, fido," she said flatly, looking down into the wide eyes of her canine visitor. "We don't serve dogs."

The dog did not leave; it merely flopped down on its hind legs, still panting heavily at her. She folded her arms, bending down- with a slight degree of difficulty, because of the thick soles of her boots and her short skirt- to the same level as the animal and regarding it irritably.

"Look, as much as I would just _love_ to let you run around and dirty my floor, I'm too busy. You're going to have to leave."

A painted fingernail pointed sharply at the door, and she clicked her tongue.

"Go on. Get."

The dog whimpered slightly, a pitiful, keening noise, before inching closer to her. Despite herself and her disdain for the animal, she could not help her smirk- its persistence was amusing. She shook her head, reaching forward and giving the dog a nudge.

"Out you go," she told it. "Come on, I 'aven't got time for-"

Footsteps pounded the pavement outside, and Martina's head snapped up, just in time to see a pair of smart, leather shoes (the kind of shoes she eschewed strongly) appear outside the door. The bell rang as the glass door pushed open once more, nudging the dog slightly. Martina gritted her teeth, irritated now. First a dog, and now some random man had just appeared in tge parlour before opening time, and she was not going to allow people to just barge in.

"Excuse me, there's still fifteen bloody minutes before we open!" she snapped, rising to her feet. "If you could just wait, I 'ave enough to deal with without..."

"Just collecting me dog, sunshine."

The man's voice was chipper, with a thick Liverpool accent. A pair of hands scooped the mutt from the floor, scuffing the animal's fur slightly.

"There you are, Mongy," he crooned, his voice affectionate. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Martina cocked an eyebrow, her eyes swivelling up to the man's face. She instantly recoiled; this was NOT the type of man she would usually associate with. Everything about him created the aura of a man who was trying a little too hard; he was adorned in a tight shirt that clung to a toned chest and even tighter black jeans, a flashy gold chain hanging from his neck. His blonde hair, obviously dyed, swooped back in a long and exaggerated pompadour style, and his face, though focused on his dog, was split into a very obvious grin. Martina scowled at him; he was the kind of person, she thought, that she could instantly dislike.

"Okay, you've got your dog," she announced. "Would you mind leavin' now?"

But the man was obviously just as persistent as his pet; instead of nodding and vacating her shop so Martina could clean up and prepare, as she would have preferred him to do, he merely looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. She braced herself, expecting the smile to fall from his face as he took in the piercings, tattoos and hair dye; he seemed just the type, with his designer jeans and overstyled hair. Instead,his smile only seemed to widen as he drank in Martina's unconventional look and then, to her extreme embarrassment and confusion, he flung his arms wide.

"Greetings!"

* * *

Joey Boswell was suave. Joey Boswell was intelligent. Joey Boswell was talented.

But right now, Joey Boswell was sort of an idiot.

He should have known that bringing Mongy to work was a bad idea. And yet, he could not resist the appeal of it; the opening of a new shop was usually intriguing, but add a dog in the window and he could almost see the customers as they flocked inside. Children would stop at the window, pointing out the "pretty puppy" excitedly to their parents, dragging them inside. People with a soft spot for dogs would be drawn in my Mongy's wise dark face and soulful eyes. And while they were in there, he had thought, it would be a piece of cake. Turn on the old Boswell charm, laugh and show them what flowers they represented... He had been so sure that with a little help from Mongy, his shop would be a hit. A florists' was an unusual place, not exactly the kind of shop people tended to haunt like they would a clothing store or cafe, and so he was desperate- though he would never have admitted it- to make his new business work. He brushed Mongy's fur, put a smart new collar on him, and brought him in that morning, envisioning an obedient dog sitting in the window wagging his tail and enchanting pedestrians.

He hadn't counted on the fact that Mongy would get bored within five minutes of him getting to work, before the shop had even opened. He also hadn't bothered to close the door, hoping instead that leaving it open would further spread the smell of flowers- though he had already managed to make it noticeable on the street, which he was happy about- and lure in potential customers. So naturally Mongy did not want to merely sit in the window all day, and the minute Joey had turned his back to straighten up a floral arrangement the dog was off, bounding out into the street. Joey turned just in time to see a shaggy tail swish past the doorway, and groaned.

"Mongy! 'Ey, come back son!"

He followed Mongy into the street briskly, stopping to make sure he closed his shop door- not that it seemed likely for anyone to steal _flowers,_ and he had not put any money in the till yet, but Joey wanted to be careful nontheless- before charging after Mongy. Again, Joey's instincts had not been correct; he had imagined Mongy to be off, running down the street after a pigeon. And yet, the dog had disappeared from sight. Joey ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

"_Mongy_," he muttered with a sigh. If he had lost the dog, then there was no doubt that his Mam would kill him. She had, after all, chided him nonstop at the breakfast table about taking the family dog to work, and yet he had just grinned smoothly and persuaded her, using the fact that he was her favourite child to his advantage.

"_'E needs a breath of fresh air, Mam. It's boring for 'im being locked up inside!"_

Yet now, though he rarely admitted he was wrong, he was starting to regret his decision.

His shoes, expensive leather pieces that he should never have been able to afford but somehow did, pounded the pavement as he hurried down the street, slightly put out that his urgency stopped him from walking in a more sophisticated manner. Around him, cars were pulling up at the side of the road and shops were beginning to open; Joey hoped that he would find the bloody dog soon, or else he would be late opening his shop, which was not exactly a perfect impression for his first day.

"Mongy! Come on!" He called down the street, and yet there was neither hide nor hair of his pet. Joey sighed and turned back when a flash of brown fur caught his eye in the window of a store a few shops down.

As he made his way towards the shop where he had caught a glimpse of Mongy, he realised with irritation that it was the shop beside his, meaning that Mongy had probably been there the entire time. He shook his head slightly, speeding up his pace as he returned to where he had started. A strange thrill ran through him when he saw the name of the shop that Mongy had run in; so fixated with opening his own florist's, he had barely paid attention to the other businesses present on the road, only really checking for competition before he bought the space. Now, however, he noted that it was the exact opposite of his business, ironically placed beside it. With an exterior painted in an angry splattering of red and black and a collage of bizarre images on the windows, it was obvious what this place was even before he looked up at the sign.

"Wild hearts tattoo parlour?" He smiled slightly. His mother would have been screaming about how people who got tattoos were tarts and not to be trusted, but there was something Joey liked about tattoos, though he had never actually got one done himself; they didn't exactly fit in with his "suave, classy style", as he liked to call it. He peered through the glass door and was relieved to see a familiar tangle of brown fur sprawled out on the floor, along with the figure of a woman. Hmm. The idea of meeting a woman appealed to Joey; they could bond, perhaps, over her returning the dog to him, and then he could invite her over to see his florists...

He pushed open the door, and a strange, strangled bell that sounded unlike anything he had ever heard before rang above it. The frame of the door nudged Mongy slightly, whose furry head whipped around to see him. As he bent down to retrieve his dog, a voice exploded above him.

"Excuse me, there's still fifteen bloody minutes before we open!" the woman snapped, taking Joey aback. Her voice was rich and strong, and the dog whimpered slightly in his grip. "If you could just wait, I 'ave enough to deal with without..."

"Just collecting me dog, sunshine," he soothed her, reaching and swiping Mongy from the floor, ruffling the dog's hair.

"There you are, Mongy," he chided his pet slightly. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

He could feel the woman's eyes on her, and see a jumble of black and white out the corner of his eye where she was standing.

"Okay, you've got your dog," her voice was fierce, yet slightly condescending. "Would you mind leavin' now?"

He turned to look at the woman properly for the first time since he had entered the shop, and was stunned into silence by her appearance.

She was different to anyone else he had ever seen. Of course, it made sense that someone who worked in a tattoo parlour might be a little edgier than the average person on the street, but she was stunning- in an unusual, unconventional way. She looked in her thirties, around the same age he was, though it was hard to tell; her face looked youthful and exotic under dramatic makeup, her strikingly blue eyes surrounded by thick wings of black under thin, tattooed black lines that served as eyebrows. Her lips were blood red and painted perfectly, curled into a cynical half-smile. Her clothes were just as dramatic; a wide skirted dress that reminded Joey of the kind of vintage dresses he saw in black and white photos of his grandmother when she was young, though this one was black and patterned with skulls, worn with a thick black corset that made her body startlingly curvaceous. Her boots were thick and standing on extremely high platforms, making her tower over him despite his own tall height, and her hair- it was dyed black, yet streaked with thick chunks of white, styled around her face making it face look ghostly pale.

But it was the tattoos and piercings, though they did not exactly surprise Joey, that were the most intriguing about her; her arms were gloved from the shoulder to the wrist in intricate patterns. A whorl of clocks, cogs and keys spiralled up her left, while a full and detailed vine twisted around almost every inch of her right, some trailing down to brush her fingertips. Joey could see the whisper of something red, possibly a heart, nestled below her collarbone, and there were her eyebrows, which he could not determine whether or not they were drawn on with liner, or tattooed. And then there were her piercings; several rings clinked against each other in the cartilage of each ear, a thick black spike driven through each earlobe and a small end stud glinted in her nose. She was unlike any other woman he had ever seen; there was a sense of elegance, though far from conventional, about her.

The polar opposite of Roxy. Roxy, with her bargain jumpers and worn jeans and sensible haircut. He found himself grinning, despite himself.

"Greetings!"

He opted for his traditional introduction, thrusting his arms wide as an exaggerated gesture. Most people seemed to appreciate his charm, perhaps laughing at the odd expression he used or smiling at him. This, however, did not impress the woman; a thin, black eyebrow raised disdainfully.

"Greetings?" She seemed almost amused by this. "What kind of daft person goes around saying 'Greetings'?"

Joey's smile faltered out of shock- no one had ever criticised his stylish catchphrase before- but it returned, and he laughed.

"A person with class," he purred. Mongy wriggled slightly in his arms, and he tightened his hold around the dog. Surely, he thought, once she had seen how stylish and confident he was, she would crack...

She didn't. Instead, her painted eyebrow raised higher.

"Class," she deadpanned. "Almost as _classy_ as your gold chains and stupid 'aircut?"

Joey fought the urge to drop Mongy and run a hand through his pompadour style self consciously; instead, he just continued to grin at her.

"I like a woman with a sense of humour." And really, he thought, she must have a good sense of humour- no one could seriously criticise _him_, Joey Boswell, and actually mean it. Besides, flattery always got him somewhere, and he was now stubbornly trying to prove to himself that he could charm any woman, even this one that seemed wholly unimpressed by the things that made other girls swoon. Well, with the exception of one particular girl... But no. Joey shook his head; now was not the time to think about R-

"Yes, well a woman would 'ave to 'ave a sense of humour to like you back," the woman was smirking slightly now. A lot of men would have crawled away with their tail tucked between their legs, sensing defeat, but Joey Boswell was no ordinary man (or, at least he didn't like to think he was.)

"Well, you seem to have a sense of humour, so am I right in thinking that you are the kind of woman who likes me back?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Wow, you are so _perceptive_," The woman's voice was, once again, dripping with sarcasm. Joey could not help but be amused by it. "I mean, you barged into my shop not two minutes ago, your mutt 'as been leaving mud all over my clean floor, you've been arrogant and irritating... why _wouldn't_ I like you?"

Joey merely winked at her, leaning casually against the door of the tattoo parlour. "Well, it's wonderful to see how friendly my fellow shopkeepers are!" he laughed. "I'm already looking forward to being next door to you..."

The woman raised an eyebrow once again, something Joey had noticed seemed to be her trademarked expression.

"Oh, yeah?" She prompted drily. Joey, shifting Mongy to one arm, reached out a hand towards the woman's tattooed ones.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself! I am Joey, Joey Boswell, the stylish, classy, _fabulous_ florist who has just moved in next door to you! Aren't you lucky!"

His hand remained extended, though the woman's eyes dropped down to it, their shrewd blue gaze fixating on it as if he was offering her a rotten slab of meat.

"If you're expecting me to shake that, you're dafter than I thought," she scoffed, looking back up at him. "So, you're the new florist who moved in next door?" her eyes flicked over him once, and Joey could tell she was a little surprised, though her voice did not bely it. It was, he reasoned, rather unexpected; florists were stereotyped as being quiet, peaceful women as opposed to charming, stylish and devillishly handsome men (as he thought, anyway.)

"Indeed I am, sunshine," he grinned wider, showing off several teeth. "And may I say, you are welcome to come in and have a look at my lovely flowers any time you like! I'm sure that a beautiful woman like you loves her flowers, am I right?"

The woman was silent for a moment, then a comically large smile split across her face, her eyes crinkled.

"_Yeeees_!" she drew out, tossing her head girlishly. "I just _love_ flowers!"

For a moment, Joey thought he had finally cracked through her harsh facade, and laughed loudly.

"Really?"

"_No_."

Dammit. This woman was definitely a tricky one- Joey had never met a woman who so immune to his char,s, and yet he rather liked that about her; it was new and intriguing, and the more she acted frosty towards him, the more he found himself wanting to get to know her.

"Well, just in case you do fancy popping round..."

"I _highly_ doubt that will happen," The woman smiled mockingly at him. "Now, on yer bike."

Joey turned for the door, but quickly whirled back around.

"And what might be your name, princess?" he asked curiously. The woman merely stared at him.

"My name is no concern of yours."

He should have expected an answer like that, but instead he threw his head back and laughed once more.

"Ah, but, I told you my name," he wagged a finger teasingly at her, though it was clear from her face that she did not appreciate the gesture. "It's your turn, sweetheart,"

"Fine, but only since you calling me 'sweetheart' is really getting on my nerves," she snapped. "It's Martina."

"Mar_tina_." Joey sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "A lovely name for a lovely girl..."

"_Get out_."

"If you say so," The man took a sweeping bow, just to push Martina's buttons a little more, then burst out the shop, striding across to his own store. As he let himself in, he glanced back at the tattoo parlour, where he could see through the glass door that Martina had begun to mop the paw prints from the floor, her lips pressed into a thin, irritated line as she did. He chuckled slightly to himself.

She was definitely going to be fun to work beside.

* * *

**Aaaaand it's done! Well, actually it was done last night, but I was too tired to bother posting it lol. What did you think? Do you like Goth!Martina and Florist!Joey?**


	2. White and Black

**I don't own the rights to Bread, and you're all probably lucky I don't.**

**Wow, a lot has changed since I last updated this. I have graduated from school, I have almost finished my HSCs (one exam left on the 3rd of November and then freedom!) and for anyone who knows me on tumblr... which, to be fair, is a majority of the active Bread fandom considering our teeny fan base, something amazing and life changing happened to me. Even though I've told this numerous times, I jump at a chance to tell it, so...**

** On the 29th of May, 2015, I had an annoying song stuck in my head, and so I decided I would listen to some music I actually liked. I was planning on listening to some MCR, except suddenly a song I hadn't fully listened to in years popped into my head. I typed it into Youtube, and saw the music video was steampunk. Loving that genre, I clicked on it immediately. The music was better than I remembered, and there was also a certain extremely attractuve singer that I noticed properly for the first time in this video... Yeah, I basically fell in love with Brendon Urie. Which was a big deal for me. And dayum, he is precious... ahem.**

**Okay. Anyway. On with the fic.**

* * *

"Tina!"

The door jingled, and for a fleeting moment Martina saw, in her mind's eye, Joey Boswell sloping back into the shop. But the coarse accent cut through that thought, and she found herself questioning whether or not this was worse. Joey, the man who had barged into her shop and pathetically attempted to charm her (to no avail, of course; Martina was not the kind of woman who fell for 'charm'- not any more, at least) was irritating, but she barely knew him and hoped that she would not have to encounter him again. This man, however, was far worse- because Martina had to deal with his unwanted advances and seedy winks on a day to day basis. She wasn't sure what he saw in her, his type usually being naive blonde girls who were all too willing to wait on him hand and foot, and yet for some reason he had taken a shine to Martina and never ceased to irritate her.

"Shifty," she muttered through gritted teeth, her tone shaping it into more of a derogatory comment than a greeting. Sure enough, Shifty's unshaven face popped up beside her, looking just as scruffy and aggravating as ever.

"Mornin', Tina," he grinned at her, and his thick Irish brogue made her skin crawl. Irish accents had not bothered her before she met him, but now she abhorred them. There was a pause, and then he held up a cardboard tray, bearing two cups of what was unmistakeably cheap takeaway coffee, the kind they sold for a pound at the petrol station; Martina did not suppress her grimace.

"I got you a coffee," he announced, as if what he had done was not obvious. She took the flimsy cup he indicated to without thanking him, knowing that it was rude not to, but not caring. Shifty watched her carefully, and she wanted to toss the coffee in his face, knowing all too well what he had _done_. Instead, she feigned taking a sip, though her lips were pursed so slightly that the festering liquid didn't touch them. He seemed to believe her, because the smugness in his eyes increased.

"How 'as yer morning been?" he drawled, stepping around her and pulling off his patchy coat. His tattoos stared up at her from his arms, several girls' names in cursive that were scrawled down each limb, and she scowled at each one, pitying whoever Betty, Andrea, Kayla, Britney and the rest of them were. The poor, naiive people, having dated him. He wore the names like trophies, and it disgusted her each time she realised that he was hoping one day _her_ name would join the lineup.

"So, Tina, I was wonderin'," Shifty hedged, and Martina gritted her teeth; she knew what was coming. Sure enough, a hand reached up to clap on her shoulder, and she cringed, feeling the desire to wash herself where he had touched her. Who knew where his hand had been that morning...

"I was wonderin' if you'd like, y'know," he laughed, the sound so false it set Martina's teeth on edge. "To go fer a round of drinks tonight?"

Martina reached out, gingerly lifting Shifty's hand from her shoulder and dropping it as if it were a dead fish.

"Shifty, how many times do I have to tell you this before it gets through yer thick skull?" she snapped, turning around to look him in the eyes, though the gleam of lust she always saw there, as if she was a prize he could not wait to win, never failed to repulse her. "I will _not ever_ go out with you again. _Never_. Not for a round of drinks, not for lunch, not 'to your place' for a 'nightcap'. Never."

The expression on his tanned, leathery face was akin to condescending, as if she was too much of a 'weak, feeble woman' to realise how 'brilliant' he was. Every day, she seemed to find new things to loathe about Shifty, or perhaps her hatred for him merely increased every second she spent in his company. She shook her head, turning away from him. He was persistent, however, and reached out (and _up_\- she was a good four inches above him in her stacked boots), to twirl a lock of her hair, in a manner that he thought was romantic, but that made her skin crawl. He was growing increasingly more touchy with her, not respecting her boundaries, and to say it was getting on her nerves would be a severe understatement.

"Come on, Tina. Don't play hard to get. I know you want to-"

Oh, no. He did not just say that. It was Martina's Beserk button; her hands clenched into tight fists, and it took a lot of restraint not to slam one into his face. Breaking his nose would have been satisfying, but it would probably also get her arrested.

"Listen, you little snake," she seethed, narrowing her eyes. "If a girl says No to you, it doesn't mean she's playing 'ard to get, it means she doesn't like you, so before you-"

The door jingled; Angela, the receptionist, had appeared in the room, and her eyes were wide as she took in Shifty and Martina, Shifty leaning in intimately, Martina looking as though she was about to throttle him.

"Hi," she said slowly, eyes flicking between the two of them, looking almost pitying. Martina's blood boiled; the thing that was the most irritating about Shifty was his ability to charm others, somehow making himself seem the picture of innocence so few people- with the exception of Julie- realised just how truly disgusting he was. Even Celia, poor Celia, who could do so much better-

"Tina's just 'avin a bad day," Shifty purred, as if Martina wasn't there. Angela nodded sympathetically, slipping off her kitschy pink coat and taking her place behind the desk, booting up the computer. When she was sufficiently distracted, Shifty's lips found Martina's ear, or the closest possible part of her they could reach.

"I love your 'air like this," he whispered, stroking the strand that he had caught hold of one last time.

"I'm dying it tonight," Martina said flatly, pulling away and picking up the coffee that he had presented her with. He paused, before winking one dirt-brown eye at her. He would never give up, she realised- and he had a _girlfriend_ as far as she knew, some skinny ginger thing who cooked most of his meals for him. Her name was Cherise, but she had not made Shifty's tattooed honour list, yet. Some girls never did, no matter hownlong the relationship with him was. When the snake had slipped into the back room for a smoke, something Martina constantly snapped at him not to do, but which he did anyway, she snuck over to the sink, pulling the cheap plastic lid off the coffee and sniffing it carefully, being wary not to inhale deeply...

He was clever, in an utterly evil manner. The cheap coffee he bought smelled so strong and harsh, like paint stripper, that the aroma was almost enough to mask anything. Almost, except Martina had trained herself, and had a keen sense of smell. She could pick it up; the slight, chemical undertone that lay in the coffee, and a closer look confirmed the traces of powder that had not yet dissolved, gathering at the edges of the cup.

Promptly, Martina tipped it, letting the substance disappear down the drain. She didn't know what he was trying to slip her, but she knew that it would not be to her benefit.

* * *

"-Just got this last bit, and then it's done."

The buzzing of the needle continued in a persistent drone as Martina carefully drove it around the outline she was working on. She could tell her client was tensed, but he was enduring it. He was a familiar, someone she had tatted on numerous occasions, and he was a pro at handling the pain. This was admittedly her favourite kind of customer to be working with, the kind who barely complained and who didn't bitch or shriek at the artist as they worked, as if they were forcing them to get the tattoo. She shot a sympathetic glance at Celia, who was working on a teenage girl shrieking as if her arm was being pulled off- not only for the irritating attitude of the girl, but also because she had demanded that she have queen Elsa tattooed across the majority of her back, something she would inevitably regret in less than a year's time.

"This is sick," Martina's client commented gruffly, examining his arm as she completed the artwork. "Sh*t, thank you so much,"

"That's all good, Max," Martina smiled wryly at him, before pausing for a moment, pressing the sterile towel to the wound on his arm once more. The image had been coming along well; it was a long process, yet definitely worthwhile. He had been in the chair for what must have been well over three hours, and this had been his third session altogether in shaping the tattoo- it had to be outlined, then coloured, and finally shaded- but he had been patient and appreciative while his skin transformed.

The piece finally finished, she carefully cleaned and wrapped his arm, the dark image glistening through the clear wrap. It was a graphic angel, her wings spread behind her, the image shaded heavily, and Max seemed endlessly proud of it.

"This is the sh*t," he decided, inspecting his arm from multiple angles, before smiling at Martina. She smiled back, her face genuine and soft for once; it was one of her simple joys in life, seeing a tattoo finished and the satisfaction on a client's face. As he settled payment with Angela at the counter, Martina set about cleaning her station, sterilising instruments and peeling off her thick latex gloves, the skin underneath hot, red from having been trapped for so long. The eclectic clock hanging crookedly on the wall informed her that it was twelve pm, and she seemed due for a break, especially since she had no appointments booked in for another hour and a half. Another misconception was that all tattoo studios were places that customers could waltz into and expect to be tatted instantly; Wild Hearts was, as parlours went, on the higher end, and therefore people had to schedule their appointments.

"I'm just heading out," she announced to her colleagues- just Angela and Celia at the moment, since Julie was taking one of her days off today (Martina suspected that she, no doubt, would be nursing a hangover with black coffee as she often did on days off), and Shifty had gone God knows where on his break- though knowing him, Martina suspected it was with a girl, somewhere neither of them could be seen. There was a soft smile from Angela and a murmur of acknowledgement from Celia in response and she headed out, the fresh air biting at her skin as she did.

It was late July, allegedly summer, but that meant little in liverpool; there was the beginning of rain, scattering drops on the road; Martina slipped her arms into her heavy coat, tucking the hood over her hair and heading towards the chippy a block away, the closest place that she could grab some kind of quick food (on the high street there lay numerous cafes, of course, but they were the kind that served quinoa and spinach salads for seven quid and took a good half hour to get round to preparing your food; Martina had little patience with those places). Greasy air and the scent of hot fat assaulted her as she stepped inside, and she was met with the usual fanfare; people's eyes swivelled towards her, taking in her towering frame, the makeup and unusual clothing, the thick columns of her boots. She merely stared back, raising a painted eyebrow at one woman gawking at her like some escaped animal until the woman grew uncomfortable, turning away.

Martina was used to it. Bloody idiots, she thought cynically. As if she was some strange, dangerous species. An alien. Because she wore different clothes; she often laughed bitterly at how stupid that concept was. It was nothing but different packaging, a different lick of paint. It didn't make her a different creature, merely someone unafraid to express herself.

She ordered, and slumped against the wall while she waited for her food, tracing patterns along her arm idly as she did; though the coat covered her skin, she knew the swirls and lines that painted her skin by heart, could almost feel them through the thick wool as she did.

"Your hair is pretty,"

Martina looked down, startled by the young, stilted voice. A small girl beamed up at her, showing off the wet gap where one of her milky teeth was missing. She was tiny, Martina noted, so small that her head barely reached Martina's kneecaps.

Martina seldom smiled genuinely, but there was something about this small girl's enthusiasm that pleased her; children often took in her height and "scary" clothing and skittered away, or in the most extreme cases whispered that she was a witch or a monster, depending on her attire. Now, however, this girl's eyes were bright as she took in Martina's form, and she found her painted lips curving up her face in a smile.

"Thanks, love," The startling height difference between her and the child was unnerving, and she bobbed down carefully, a little closer to the girl's level.

"My cat has black and white fur like that. I wish I had black and white hair too, because then I would match her," the little girl babbled naively, reaching up. Martina flinched reflexively as a tiny hand fiddled with a lock of her hair, but at the tiny giggle the girl made, she relaxed a little.

"Maybe when you're older, you can have black and white hair too," she informed her, and it was worth seeing the bright smile that graced the child's face. Tiny, rounded hands clapped together excitedly.

"Really? Then Kitty and I will look like sisters!" She crowed. As Martina smiled, the girl's eyes widened further, and they dipped down; Martina realised, with a jolt, what she was looking at; the lines of her tattoo that began curling over her collarbones.

"Pretty picture," she gasped, eyes filled with awe. And Martina smiled at the irony of it; this little girl was so young and naiive, and yet she understood the point of tattoos more than many judgemental adults did. They weren't 'cries for attention' or 'satantic rituals'. They were art or, as the girl put it in her simpler manner, _pretty pictures_.

Martina peeled her coat off carefully, revealing her arms. The girl gasped in delight, running her fingers over Martina's arms. The woman was usually opposed to being touched like that, yet she found it sweet and most definitely interesting to have her tattoos examined from a child's perspective. The girl's tiny, chubby fingers ran along them and she giggled her excitement.

"Pretty!" she looked up, her face suddenly businesslike, plump lips set. "Why do you have pretty skin? Are you a fairy?"

A fairy. It was the polar opposite of what Martina was usually referred to, by children and adults alike, and it made her laugh- a far less cynical chortle than she usually opted for.

"Maybe," she winked at the girl, surprising herself with how much she enjoyed adding to the little girl's sense of wonder. "Maybe I-"

"_Get away from my daughter, you freak!_"

The bubble popped, abruptly. Martina was pulled back, from the childlike realm where fairies existed and pretty pictures glowed proudly for others to see, back into reality- the land of harsh criticism. Arms encircled the girl, tugging her away; Martina looked up from her crouch to see a woman, fussing over the child frantically.

"Did she hurt you, Mary? Did she give you anything bad to drink?"

Martina snorted, drawing herself to her full height, smug that she stood a good foot over the woman at this point. "Are you implying I gave your daughter alcohol?"

The woman looked up, face flushed, eyes slitted as she appraised Martina in disgust. She pulled the protesting girl closer into her arms, squeezing her against her chest like a doll.

"Well, who knows what _your type_ would do?" she snapped, voice as brittle as glass. Martina's face grew stonier at the words _your type_, a phrase which she despised hearing.

"She's a fairy, Mummie," the girl announced, voice muffled by her mother's torso. The woman shook her head frantically, clicking her tongue.

"No, Mary." she shot a disgusted look at Martina. "She's a bad woman. Stay away from people like her."

The girl- Mary- pulled her head free, shooting Martina a longing, wide-eyed look and pointing at her arm.

"No," she said stubbornly, stretching her fingers out further. "She's a fairy! She's got pretty pictures on her skin-"

"Those are _not_ pretty pictures!" The mother hissed, while Martina rolled her eyes, lips tightening. "Those are marks that show she's a bad, _bad_ woman." She lifted her daughter higher, staring seriously into the child's eyes. Martina felt a surge of irritation, and tapped the woman on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, love, but I can 'ear you, you know." she snapped, raising an eyebrow. The woman's face grew colder, and she pulled her daughter closer to her once more, as if Martina was seconds away from snatching her up arms and throwing her into the chip shop's deep fryer, or doing something equally morbid and ridiculous.

"_Good_," the woman said frostily. "People like you ought to be arrested."

She was throwing all the cliche phrases at Martina, who was not in the mood to deal with this.

"For what? For wearing different clothing to you lot?" she scoffed. The woman was ordinary, of course, formless jeans, sandshoes and a sensible shirt, the colours bland and unassuming. Her face, however, contrasted with this, turning a startling shade of red as she scowled at Martina.

"For dressing like a... a hooligan!"

Martina snorted once more, folding her arms. "Is 'ooligan really the best word you can come up with?" She shook her head, sighing. "I wasn't going to hurt your daughter. She's a sweet girl who, unlike you, thinks my tattoos are pretty and wanted to look at them."

"She _shouldn't!_" The woman seethed, voice taking on an almost venomous quality. "She should know they're ugly, that they ruin your life!"

The man at the counter called Martina's order at that moment, thrusting out the foil bag and takeaway cup in her direction. Martina stared down at the woman, the humidity of the shop only adding to her prickling anger.

"I may 'ave tattoos, but at least I don't go around judging people and acting like a right cow." She snatched the food and her coffee then, boots clomping heavily on the floor as she passed the woman, still snapping insults at her back, and stepped out into the smoggy street, rolling her eyes. At first, when she was younger, more vulnerable, altercations like that would bother her and sour her day- now they almost amused her, in a twisted way. How others automatically took her as a bad, untrustworthy person just from her clothes; judging a book by its cover as an art form. All that bothered her now was the fact that the mother was trying to raise her little girl to grow up judgemental, something Martina highly disagreed with.

Martina took a drag from her coffee, the bitter liquid a welcome burn on her throat. She took a bite of her roll with a little more vigor than necessary. The shop door opened behind her; Martina saw the woman who had snapped at her exit, one hand clutched around a plastic bag filled with takeaway, the other clasped tightly over her daughter's wrist. She shot Martina a disgusting glare as she stalked past, and Martina snorted.

She spent her break hour strolling along the streets idly, eating her lunch and glancing around the scenery. She knew the streets almost inside out, and yet she still glanced around in interest. Martina was not sure when she had first begun that habit, but now it had become all but part of her routine. As if she was stuck, in an endless loop of glancing around scenery she knew would never change, waiting and wishing that something would change. Not just a surface change- the repainting of a shop front, a store becoming vacant before being picked up again. Martina longed for some kind of deeper, more permanent change. A sign that the world around her was evolving.

With some time to spare, she found herself dropping onto a bench, planning on taking some time to herself, to lose herself in a world that wasn't filled with stuck up people who felt it was their place to judge anyone who was not their definition of normal. She slipped her earbuds from her coat pocket- she knew it was hardly mature to be sitting on the street, listening to an iPod, and yet since people stared anyway, that hardly mattered- and placed them in her ears, flicking through the songs when the sound of a loud and obnoxious throat clearing made her tense.

Ah. _Perfect_.

"Listening to music?"

Martina sighed irritably, popping an earbud from her ear and whirling around.

Joey Boswell was leaning against a ridiculous black car, grinning up at her as if they were old friends, despite the fact that they had only met that morning. She gave him an unimpressed look.

"Your problem with that is...?" One thin, black eyebrow curved up, and he shrugged.

"I thought only teenage girls listened to iPods," he smirked, and she snorted. Of course he would, he who probably had no taste in music and didn't understand what decent songs sounded like. She did not bother dignifying this with a reply; she pulled the earbud back up, turning the volume up a notch stubbornly and stalking off.

Of course, Joey had to follow her, like an eager puppy bouncing around. She huffed when she sensed his footsteps behind her and whirled around once more, narrowing her eyes.

"What?" she snapped, folding her arms. "What the bloody 'ell do you want?"

Joey grinned boyishly at her, cocking his head as if they were old, comfortable friends, the opposite of how Martina felt about him.

"What music are you listening to, sunshine?"

She snorted at him, rolling her eyes. As if the music she listened to was any of his business... Why did he want to know, anyway? How could it possibly benefit him, the 'great' Joey Boswell? Was he the kind of person who was obsessed with knowing everything about everyone, even people he barely knew at all?

"The kind with instruments."

He laughed at this, a boisterous and irritating sound that made Martina scowl even further. It reminded her far too much of the canned laughter on a cheap sitcom for her liking, a forced rhythm.

"Of course." He shook his head, eyes bright. "I'm rather partial to all the greats, myself. Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Bach..."

It did not surprise Martina that a pretentious man like Joey would be the kind of person to listen to classics compositions to make himself sound sophisticated and knowledgeable. From the way he proudly announced his preferred music, she could see that he was waiting for her to be impressed and fall at his feet. But if he thought that was going to happen, he was sorely mistaken- Martina would sooner streak through Trafalgar square than swoon over an arrogant idiot.

"Congratulations," she snarked, staring dully at him, or rather the way he grinned as if any second the paparazzi would jump out and take a photo of _him_, the great Joey Boswell. "Well, excuse me, but I'm busy listening to music that would obviously be 'ard for someone like you to enjoy. Goodbye."

"Hard for me to enjoy?" Joey cocked his head, chuckling. Martina wondered if it would be considered illegal to smack him across his smarmy gob, which seemed not to know the meaning of shutting up. "Why, I 'ave excellent taste in music, and I am sure that a lovely lady like yourself-" a pause, a sickening wink. "Would listen to just the sort of classy music that I enjoy..."

Martina raised an eyebrow, before tossing an earbud at him with disgust.

"Knock yourself out," she muttered. The minute Joey placed it into his ear, she flicked on one of the songs she knew he would like the least, intentionally turning the volume up so loudly that she could hear it clearly from a distance. It was highly satisfying, seeing the smug simper leave his face, and him yank the earbud out.

"I'm sorry, love," he frowned, before regaining his composure. "It appears that your device is broken. All it played was some loud growling noise, not music."

Martina scoffed, pulling her iPod away from him and making a mental note to disinfect the earbud that had touched him, lest she be infected with whatever gold-dipped parasite had apparently crawled into his brain and eaten away at all the humility and charisma.

"That 'noise' was called Lordi," she raised an eyebrow once more, folding her arms and wondering briefly if Joey would recognize the name from their entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. The author of this fic took a brief moment to be unprofessional and make a very pointed reference to a show that someone they suspected would be reading this was obsessed with, followed by this very out of prose slip, which Martina rolled her eyes at (_honestly, the things some authors did on a whim,_) before turning back to Joey.

"Lordly?" he tapped his chin. "Tell me, sunshine- are they a gospel band?"

Martina choked back a snicker, instead resuming her poker face. "Yes. Absolutely. You know what? There is an internet cafe... oh, two streets away." she placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him around sharply. "Why don't you get on yer bike and head off down there to Google this "Lordly" band, eh?"

Joey paused, before turning back to Martina, who had used his brief moment of distraction to begin making her way away from him.

"Going so soon, princess?"

Martina gritted her teeth, turning back around and narrowing her eyes.

"What do you want?" she shook her head. "I don't 'ave all day to stand in the street and talk to someone I don't know, let alone like."

Joey gave her a truly disgusting grin, looking like the cat that had not only got the cream, but doused its smug furry face in and lapped until it was all gone.

"You might like me if you got to know me-"

Martina made a noise of disgust in the back of her throat, her eyes flicking down Joey's gold chains, bulky leather jacket, and to top it off-literally- the bouffant hair, the way the sides were shorter but the top swooped up in a pompadour manner, dyed an ostentatious blonde. It was like he was trying to style his hair into the crown he felt he deserved; he looked the polar opposite of Martina. She highly doubted that she would like him if she got to know him. In fact, in the few extra minutes that she had been talking to him, she was starting to dislike him even further.

"I sincerely don't believe that." She wondered why on earth he was remotely interested in getting to know her, anyway, but briskly dismissed it; he seemed like the type of person who would prefer to 'collect' other people, try and charm them for lack of something to do.

She ignored King Joey Boswell of douche-bagland as she stalked back to her shop, her attempt at attaining a peaceful lunch break ruined even further now. First, the judgemental woman in the chippy, now Mister Boswell popping up again like some obnoxious Jack-in-the-Box. She was in no way in the mood for that sort of altercation, and so she decided to end her break early, and return to work as soon as possible. She did not have any clients booked for a few hours, but she could busy herself with sorting the stencils, and inks. It was better, Martina reasoned, to be productive than to waste her time arguing with arrogant idiots.

As if to further ruin her day, the moment she stepped inside the shop, she was greeted with the smell of stale alcohol, cigarettes and old spice. Apparently, Shifty had returned from his break; this was always evident as he spent his break drinking, smoking and/or having sex with whatever little thing in a skirt he could seduce in the time- if only she could fire him, then she would in a second.

_One nightmare after another,_ Martina thought drily, scowling. Shifty was currently inking a woman's back, and looked like he was taking great pleasure out of the fact that she had needed to remove her bra in order to leave him with a free space between her shoulderblades on which to tattoo. He looked up, lifting the buzzing needle away from the skin he was working on to give her a sly grin.  
Martina scowled back in response.

* * *

The streets were black; the clock overhead displayed that it was nearly eight pm. It was by no means late for the studio to close- sometimes, they were open well into the night, finishing up artworks or working on late appointments. They had no more appointments booked for today, however, so Angela had headed home, and Martina, Shifty and Celia were left to pack away the store before returning home. Celia had taken a break earlier in the evening to bring Indian takeaway for them into the back room (they were not to eat in the actual studio for hygiene reasons), and she called them in. Martina took the foil container gratefully, thanking her and slumping against the cluttered table.

"Shifty," Celia greeted him politely, holding out the plastic bag to the man as he entered. "I brought us all dinner. You like Madras, right?"

Martina narrowed her eyes at Shifty. Whilst he would jump at a chance to impress anyone female in a twelve mile radius, Celia had always been the one exception. His face twisted into a sneer, making him look utterly hideous, and he shook his head.

"Did I ask _you_ to buy me dinner?" he asked gruffly, shaking his head. "No. For yer information, I'm going out with my girlfriend this evening."

"Which girlfriend?" Martina asked sourly, and she watched the contrast as Shifty made eye contact with her; his face returned to its usual predatory grin, but the minute he returned his gaze to Celia, it drooped into an expression of utter loathing that made Martina hate him even more than usual; she was disgusted with the way he treated Celia.

"No thanks, _love_," he shook his head snidely. "I don't wanna eat anything _you've_ touched. Wouldn't wan'a catch your illness."

Martina stood up quickly, almost knocking the table over in her fury. Celia looked as though Shifty had just slapped her across her face.

"Listen, Shifty," she said slowly, and Shifty smirked up at her. "Make one more remark like that 'bout Celia, and I bloody well will fire you."

"That's up to management, _light of my life_," Shifty stuck his chin out arrogantly. Martina folded her arms, giving him a look that she hoped conveyed just how much she refused to back down. Her eye makeup, extreme height when in boots and strong, angular features always served to intimidate people she didn't have a problem with, and yet for some reason it never worked on pests like Shifty, or even that rotten Joey from before.

"I'm sure they'd love to know about some of the other capers you've been up to," she blackmailed, keeping her voice level and firm. If Shifty was concerned, he hid it brilliantly, shrugging her threat off casually.

"You'd never get me sacked," he sounded far too confident in himself, sidling up to her and standing uncomfortably close, so she could see each overgrown hair on his leathery chin, and feel his breath uncomfortably close to her chest. "You like my presence too much."

Martina's hand twitched, begging to be curled into a fist and rammed into his face. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than the satisfaction of feeling his nose crunch under her fingers, seeing him vulnerable and knocked down a peg... But Martina steeled herself. As much as she hated Shifty, she could not and _would not_ resort to violence.

"Just... if yer not going to eat with us, then get going." She said sharply. Shifty ignored this cue, and as they had earlier that morning, his fingers curled arpund a strand of her hair.

"I really do love these colours-"

Martina slapped his hand away, shooting him a look of pure loathing. She resolved to pick up some hair dye from the pharmacist as soon as she had finished the takeaway Celia had brought.

"Night, Tina," he grinned, his face switching and becoming deceptively innocent and cheeky, juxtaposing the sneer he had worn before. Martina glared at him, lips drawn tightly, jaw clenched. He turned, and clapped a hand on Celia's shoulder, making her flinch in shock. Martina watched suspiciously as the evil seeped back into his smile, then; apparently, it could not stay away for more than a few minutes- it seemed to be his default emotion.

"Night, Michael."

Celia froze, a spasm of hurt crossing her pointed face, before she whirled around.

"How bloody dare you, Shifty." she hissed, shoving him away with surprising force considering her small frame. Shifty fixed her with a look of poorly-feigned innocence.

"What? It's your name, in'it?"

Before Martina could, as some would delicately put it, _rip him a new one_, Shifty was gone, slamming the back door behind him, though they could hear his thick, irish laughter from outside. Celia's face was screwed into a pained expression as she looked down at her takeaway, and Martina sighed. She and Celia were by no means close, but they had a mutual appreciation for each other, and a mutual dislike for Shifty- though somehow, impossibly, Celia seemed to dislike him less than Martina did, despite his callous remarks towards her.

"Listen, love," Martina told her firmly. "Don't listen to anything 'e says. You know 'e's got an ashtray for a brain."

Celia shrugged, stabbing her fork into a curried vegetable. "I'm used to it. I just wish..." she dropped her fork, looking up at Martina. She looked exhausted, and utterly fed up with Shifty. "We were goin' out for _three months_. And I really liked him, but when he found out, he thought it was disgusting."

"It were probably for the best, love," Martina assured her, shaking her head. "You could do much better than Shifty." She craned her neck, shooting the doorway he had just exited an icy glare and hoping that, no matter how far away he was, he felt its shards of ice prick the back of his neck.

"Oh, believe me, I know," Celia told her firmly, fiddling with the plastic fork that had come with her tray of curry. "But it's 'ard to find a man who's a gentleman but at the same time is good at sex. It always seems to be one or another- either he's a gentleman but lousy at bonking, or the only thing he can do for a woman is in his pants." She popped a piece of chicken in her mouth matter-of-factly.

Martina snorted loudly at Celia's bluntness- her colleague was never one to shy away from the topic of sex, something Martina had mixed feelings about discussing. However, she had to agree; a day spent seemingly tossed between Shifty's leers and Joey Boswell's unnecessary appearances was enough to make anyone exhausted.

* * *

**Oh my Goodness I haven't updated this in many many months... And this was a stupid chapter...**

**Uh... what did you think? lmao I know, this sucked.**


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